


cling and clatter

by vensre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Gen, Senses, Trains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-12
Updated: 2010-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-11 01:31:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vensre/pseuds/vensre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sensory overload: Sherlock rides the Tube and is Miserable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cling and clatter

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [the prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/575.html?thread=180799#t180799): _Sherlock can't handle a lot of things going on at once ("Everyone shut up! Anderson turn your back!" etc..)_
> 
> So how about he is in a big crowd of people and experiences sensory overload--hearing too many voices, seeing too many intricate details, feeling too many people brush against him, smelling too many kinds of perfume/deodorant...
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks go to [tigertale7](http://tigertale7.livejournal.com/) for enabling me, and to [themadlurker](http://archiveofourown.org/users/themadlurker) for betawork _and_ enabling.

   
"What is that?"

Sherlock spares a glance to the side, put out that John was paying enough attention to spot the tiny bottle, doubly put out that he has that half-scrunched suspicious face. "Nothing that Lestrade would blink at me having," he says, pitched barely loud enough to reach John's ears, then has to scoot back far enough for his arm to press against John's when a man shoves his reeking way along the centre of the car and stops nearby to cling to one of the overhead bars. Even John wrinkles his nose at the stench of the man's aftershave (Aqua Velva _Ice Sport_ over BO, how horrid), and, feeling generous, Sherlock swiftly uncaps the bottle and waves it under John's nose.

John looks surprised, then sneezes enormously. It's very funny. "That's almost violently minty, isn't it," John observes.

Sherlock breathes in the clean, overpowering scent as well, and dabs a bit on his upper lip so he can mask everything else for a while. "Peppermint oil will tend to be. It's preferable to..." Sherlock cocks his head slightly toward Aqua Velva, facts about the stranger suggesting themselves unneeded. In the stances of the people around them he can pick out those getting off at the next stop as they shift in anticipation, a few Americans by the set of their shoulders, and one miserable youth who appears to feel as assaulted by this cacophony (despite earbuds) as Sherlock himself does. He crosses his arms and carefully diverts his line of thought before he gets to possible diagnoses for that kindred spirit.

He _never_ takes public transport, if he isn't directly studying it. The Tube is too everything: loud, crowded, filthy, full of endless details. Details that plug in somewhere (a teddy bear '**I was good!**' sticker on the side of a man's business shoe: his child is ill) and ones that don't (a tattoo behind a young woman's ear of the letter J: with the observable facts it could stand for anything, and he'll likely never know but he's not likely to ever forget he saw it, either). Sherlock shuffles a step closer to John, turning to face the one familiar person in a welter of unknown ones, whose secrets are already safely untangled. The train slows, and they all sway.

The doors rumble open. (Three stops to go: between seventeen and eighteen minutes unless there is a malfunction of some kind.) He shuts his eyes.

"Sherlock?"

"Just thinking," he mutters. He doesn't watch the people he picked out disembark. A new batch crowds on, including some who have begun their weekends early, their voices loud and careless. One stumbles against his back, a sharp shoulder and a waft of body heat, and John grabs on to his elbows and holds him steady.

Wet. They have _spilled alcohol on him_ (Carlsberg, of all things!) and it is soaking through the back of his coat to his shirt, already clinging to his skin. There is no question of confronting them; Sherlock holds still and doesn't open his eyes, and thinks in angry circles for a moment about life having no fast-forward. Perhaps it would be worth making up with Mycroft if only to get his inventors on that.

John sighs, still gripping his arms. One of his hands rests more heavily and at an odd angle: he must have his cane tucked under his arm. "Two more stops," he says.

"Three." Even in less than ideal circumstances, Sherlock is confident of the accuracy of his internal map.

"No," John says, his tone ruffled. "No. One."

Sherlock lets his eyes open then, taking in the unamused set of John's jaw, and — beneath the blaring announcements and rapid-flashing fluorescent lights — has a very unaccustomed sensation of being empathised with.

The four remaining minutes aren't pleasant. The huddle of drunken celebrants is butchering Ke$ha via song, and the strip of his trousers along the back of his belt is damp with beer in a deeply uncalled-for way. But the train slowing for the next station is as buoyant a relief as the quickening slide of thought toward inspiration.

John doesn't wait for him to move, but drags Sherlock to the doors as they roll open, cane in one hand and the other at Sherlock's elbow, and then they are out on the platform and he can _breathe_ again, he can _think_. They pause out of the flow of foot-traffic to indulge in breathing and thinking for a moment.

"We'll get a cab," John says, still sounding grumpy as he eyes the staircase that leads to the street.

"What happened to 'saving time and money'?" Sherlock prods. His ears seem to be ringing a little, perhaps an echo of too much noise, but he has his clarity back and it feels fantastic.

"Not worth it." (Sherlock said as much earlier, but he leaves that unspoken in light of John's compromise.) "Let's save on cleaning your coat next time instead. What was the address?" John says, starting for the staircase determinedly.

Presumably, the impounded evidence is not going to escape in the next two hours. "Home," says Sherlock.


End file.
